


The Fireplace Scene revisited (5x05)

by phyllisverse



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-09
Updated: 2012-11-09
Packaged: 2017-11-18 06:34:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phyllisverse/pseuds/phyllisverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5x05 fix-it... how the scene should have ended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fireplace Scene revisited (5x05)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The characters, parts of the dialogue, and anything you recognise belong to the BBC. I'm not making any money.  
> Note: This ff contains spoilers for the episode 5x05 of Merlin. It's also how I thought this scene would go right up until it didn't.

 

“How did you know this place was sacred?” Arthur asks out of the blue, as if he's been thinking about something else, but the question just happened to cross his mind.

“It's obvious.”

“Pretend it isn't.”

I stop kindling the fire and shoot Arthur a quick look. He's lying on his back, staring idly into space, not paying attention.

“Everything here is so full of life,” I start, and want to leave it at that, but something about the way my words reverberate in the chilled evening air makes me go on. “Every tree, every leaf, every insect... It's as if the world is vibrating.” I smile because I can feel it, right now, can feel my magic rejoicing at this brightness of life, at this fullness of being. “As if everything is much more than itself.” I speak the last words to myself, only vaguely aware that Arthur has lifted his head and is looking at me.

“You feel all that?”

I half-smile at the incredulous tone. “Don't you?”

I look over just in time to see Arthur shake his head slowly, puzzled, a question forming in his eyes. The smile drops off my face. The fire's warmth seems to suddenly have disappeared. I should have known, probably. Is it only my magic that makes me react to the place this way? Is it not... real?

Before Arthur can ask, I turn the conversation to a different topic. “What will you do?”

His face immediately closes down and he sighs. “I don't know. My heart says do anything I can to save Mordred... but I've seen what misery unfettered sorcery brings.” The earnest tone feels like a punch in the stomach. I stay silent, breathless, as the words cut into me mercilessly.

“Before my father outlawed magic, Camelot was almost destroyed by sorcery. In my own time, Morgana has used it for nothing but evil. What would you do?”

_Destroy, evil_ , ring in my head. It takes a second for the question to register. “In my place?” Arthur clarifies.

It's a question he seems to be asking me more often lately. Except this time, I can't tell him, not honestly, not even by leaving out some of the truth. I drop into the mode of self-defence I know best. “Me? I'm just a lackey, maker of beds.” I even laugh a little, although it feels hollow.

“Lackeys can be wise.”

I bite my lip, hard. Arthur is looking at me expectantly, but I can't speak, can't say how much I wish I did not have to laugh off the moments that he turns to me for advice, can't say how this is a far more difficult decision than he could ever realise, and that he can't ask me for this, that he can't ask me to choose between him and magic; as if they were exclusive, as if fate had decided that they wouldn't work together.

Arthur has straightened up now, and his gaze is searching.

“It's not like you to _be_ silent.”

He says it with an emphasis that makes me close my eyes in horror – say something, anything, because otherwise, he'll figure it out right here -

“The Kingdom's future is at stake.” It doesn't even sound like my voice.

“And a man's life,” Arthur adds immediately.

I force the words out, the words I have said so many times, and have maybe started to believe a little. “You must protect Camelot and you must protect the world you have spent your life building. A just and fair kingdom for all.”

Internally, I'm screaming at myself. Really, Merlin? At this moment, is the most important thing really to be ambiguous enough to not be outright lying, even though I know he will misunderstand, _want_ him to misunderstand?

And he does. Oh Arthur, you can be so reliable. “You'd have me sacrifice a friend.” He sounds resigned.

“I would have you become the king you were destined to be.”

Maybe it's the place. Maybe it's my magic thrumming far more insistently than usual under my skin, maybe it's that I can feel _everything_ , every tree and stone listening. Do I imagine the words “the king you were destined to be” echo on for longer than normal? They fly around my head, pulling out memories of prophecies and of days when I thought the way to destiny would be a simple one. That Arthur would accept magic once his father died. That we would rule together, that those with magic could call him their king.

I've stopped believing in it. And the strange thing is: I never needed those prophecies to believe in Arthur. I believed in him, and that made them more important, more accurate. And the same prophecies are now convincing me that Arthur cannot be the king I thought he would be. But it's not _them_ that turned him into this. It's me. It's Morgana. It's everything that went wrong on the way. Because I wanted to protect him too much; because I thought that as long as I kept him alive, destiny would just fall into place. And now I'm trying to protect him from destiny itself, the end of the long road he has walked down blindly, with me whispering encouragement into his ear.

None of the two options the Disir offer is acceptable, really. So why should we choose between them as if they were the only ones?

My eyes refocus. Arthur is staring at me intently. Whatever just showed on my face, it must have given him a different perspective of what I said. He leans forward.

“If I did save Mordred,” he says quietly, insistently, “my father's work would all have been for nothing. Sorcery would once again reign in Camelot. Is that what you'd want?”

It's not a rhetorical question.

“I mean, maybe my father was wrong,” Arthur continues, unfazed. “Maybe magic isn't all as evil as we thought it was. But would you really take that risk? Would you put your trust in _magic_ , of all things?”

My body feels frozen. There is a tremor starting inside me, a panic about to leak out, but my limbs seem paralysed and all I can do is stare into those blue eyes, knowing that every second I don't answer could be the second that he will suspect the truth. It doesn't seem to make a difference.

Finally, my hands start shaking. I curl my fingers into fists and drop my eyes, hiding the tears welling up in them. I know it's too late to back out and to make Arthur believe that I'm just scared. (He's stopped accepting that explanation a long time ago. His eyes never quite leave me after I tell him.)

“Merlin?” His voice is soft. I close my eyes, feel tears run down my cheeks, and try to breathe. I feel as if ten years of lies are hanging in the air around me, as if every ounce of magic that got hidden or chased away because of me is pressing onto my shoulders now, daring me to pronounce its death.

“Merlin. Talk to me.” There is fear in Arthur's voice now. _He knows_ , I think desperately. There is movement and my eyes fly open, but Arthur hasn't drawn his sword. His face is inches from mine and his hands reach towards my shoulders and he looks so _worried_ that I nearly laugh.

“You're not telling me something,” he states. In the certainty, there is a question. He still hasn't guessed then. I look at him and imagine choosing magic, fixing his death, bowing to the goddess. I imagine letting Mordred die, deeming him safe, and spending the rest of my life upholding laws against my own kind, watching pyres burn, knowing it should be me on them.

“I don't want to choose,” I rasp. Arthur's face relaxes a little bit, but his tone remains serious.

“Of course you don't. It's my choice, Merlin, I am merely asking your advice.” His hands slide from my shoulders down to my arms. “But if there is anything that you know to help me make that decision... then you should tell me. Now.”

I laugh a little, because he doesn't understand, and he looks worried again. “No, no,” I mumble, trying to explain. “I don't want _you_ to choose either.” Arthur's mouth opens and I cut across him, more firmly now. “It shouldn't be a choice. Or at least, it shouldn't be _this_ choice.”

“I still don't-”

“Ask me again,” I plead. I can feel the fear catching up, and know that if I wait too long, I will never dare. “Just... what you said. Just now, before you came over. Ask me again.” Arthur turns to look at his bed roll, clearly tracing back his words. Then, he straightens abruptly and looks back at me. I try not to react as he carefully lets go of my arms and moves away, settling back down on his blanket, and staring at me across the low fire.

“So, Merlin,” he starts deliberately, forming every word carefully, “do you think I should put my trust in _magic_ , of all things?”

The forest holds its breath.

“I think,” I say clearly, despite my pounding heart and shaking hands, “that you already do.”

And before I can back out into one of the millions of safety corners that I have built myself since I first came to Camelot, I make the fire curl upwards, drawing lines and rings into the air, and letting my eyes glow as golden as the brightest spark.

* * *


End file.
